


Leave Me out with the Waste

by DachOsmin



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Alley Sex, Angst, Hate Sex, M/M, Poor Life Choices, Yuleporn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-19 04:59:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13116540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DachOsmin/pseuds/DachOsmin
Summary: The hands skimming down Robert's hips are expected, but they make him shiver all the same. “Really?” he manages. “In a fucking alley?”





	Leave Me out with the Waste

**Author's Note:**

  * For [delina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delina/gifts).



Hell, Robert decides, is running into your ex at a neighborhood potluck while surrounded by screaming children.

Okay, “running into” is a bit of a misnomer; Robert catches one flash of Joseph’s pink polo before ducking behind the nearest tree. It’s not a bad place to be: it’s shady, it’s quiet, and he doesn’t have to talk to Joseph. Best of all, he manages to bribe one of the neighborhood kids to bring him a beer from the cooler in exchange for two nickels and a half melted thin mint he fishes out of his pocket.

Joseph, meanwhile, is earnestly explaining to his latest conquest that the adulterous fucking from the night before had been nice, but not quite as nice as the sociocultural approval he gets from stringing his wife on until the next hot guy pops up. So no, they can’t date.

And, oh, if Robert hasn’t heard that fucking sob story before.

He takes a swig of his beer to wash the bitterness away. He can’t seem to taste it; he just feels the burn as it hits the sides of his stomach. Fuck, but he should’ve eaten something.

He casts a furtive glance at the picnic table on the patio. It’s a riot of casserole plates and mismatched Tupperware. A perfect ivory plate of perfect looking brownies with the fancy marbled cream cheese icing sits in the center of the spread. His mouth waters just looking at them, but he’ll be fucking damned if he touches Joseph’s baking again.

He’s making a beeline for the ugliest, most misshapen cookies he can see- that’ll show Joseph- when the fucker crosses his path, walking in the opposite direction and carrying a white trash bag.

Robert can’t help it; he checks Joseph as they walk past each other, hard. The cotton of Joseph’s polo rubs against the leather of his jacket; Robert tamps down the urge to touch the spot on his sleeve. He grunts instead. Asshole isn’t getting an apology from him.

Joseph doesn’t seem to mind. He turns to face him with the fakest, most blinding smile plastered onto his face. “Robert! How the devil have you been?”

Robert avoids those piercing blue eyes and steps to the side. He’s not having this conversation with Joseph. Hell, he’s not having any conversation with Joseph.

Joseph mirrors his step. “Good to see you, buddy,” he says in that cheerful way of his, like they really are buddies and nothing acrid and rotten has ever happened between them. He hefts his trash bag. “By the way, could you lend me a hand and take this out to the bin in the alley?”

“Do it yourself,” Robert mutters, still avoiding eye contact.

Joseph smiles again, but there’s an edge to it. “It’s the neighborly thing to do.” He’s leaning in, just a hair too close, but it’s enough to make Robert freeze all the same. Joseph’s smile widens, because of course he knows exactly what he’s doing. He always does. “Take out the trash, Robert,” he murmurs. “We wouldn’t want to cause a scene.”

Maybe it’s that. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s suddenly very aware of all the people milling around them, people who he doesn’t want getting dragged into this. Maybe it’s just that Joseph always gets what he wants.

Either way he’s a goner. He feels his hands move of their own accord; he feels his fingers wrap themselves in the twist tie of the garbage bag and then he’s hefting it and heading to the back gate of the yard. Joseph doesn’t say a word, but Robert can feel his presence at his back; he can see a hint of his polo at the edge of his vision. The animal part of his brain hates this: there’s a predator right there, teeth inches from his neck. The rest of him hates it because the rest of him hates Joseph. Well, most of him. There’s one bit that fucking loves Joseph, and that’s how he got into this fucking mess in the first place.

He sets the bag down to undo the latch on the gate.

Amanda pops up from the picnic table and waves, shaking her head. “Hey man, no need to do that! My dad’ll take care of it.”

He forces a smile, the kind that doesn’t scare children. “Just being neighborly.”

She looks like she wants to argue, but he’s got the latch up and is slipping through the door before she can say anything. It used to be a source of pride, how good he was at running away.

The alley is deserted. The houses on the other side are all dark, and the fences are all too high to see over. Robert eyes the trash cans and recycling bins haphazardly strewn up and down the alley, half-expecting one of the neighborhood kids to pop up. But no one does.

He hears Joseph step into the alley behind him, then hears the quiet sound of the gate closing and the latch clicking shut.

Robert doesn’t turn around. He walks to the nearest garbage can. Hefts the bag. Huffs as he tosses it into the bin.

And then it’s done and it’s just him and Joseph, all alone. The sounds of the party are blaring in the background, but the alley is quiet. There’s only the hiss of the cicadas and Joseph’s eyes burning into his back louder than words.

“I did what you asked,” he says. The words sound ever so slightly off-pitch in his ears. There’s a humming in his heart.

When Joseph speaks his voice is close, too close. “You always do.”

The hands skimming down his hips are expected, but they make him shiver all the same. “Really?” he manages. “In a fucking alley?”

Joseph spins him around so that they face each other; he goes, limply, like a doll. “Honestly, Robert. Do you think you deserve something better?”

And of course he doesn’t, but Joseph doesn’t have to rub it in. That’s the worst part, every time: the way Joseph fucking revels in it. He wants to see Robert on his knees in filth; he gets off on it.

What does it say that Robert gets off on it too? Fuck, but there’s something wrong with him. “Asshole,” he breathes, locking eyes with Joseph and daring him to do something about it.

The slap is expected: a languid hand hard across his cheek, bracingly clean, the best sort of pain. Even as Robert gasps and runs a hand over over the stinging flesh, he feels his cock hardening against the seam of his jeans.

“You bring out the worst in me,” Joseph says with a moue of regret, and Robert can’t help it, he’s snarling, grabbing the collar of that fucking polo and hauling their mouths together in a vicious kiss. There’s no tenderness in it and barely any artistry: they’re a mess of clacking teeth and curses, bit lips and spit.

“You taste like cheap beer,” Joseph hisses when they pull apart for air.

“You taste like a closeted hypocritical asshole,” is all he can think to spit back.

Joseph pulls back and lets out the most put-upon sigh. “I don’t know why I stoop to this.”

Robert knows the answer to that one at least: it’s because as much as Joseph hates Robert’s mouth talking, he fucking loves Robert’s mouth on his cock.

Better remind him. Maybe this time Joesph will even admit it.

Robert kneels like a challenge. It’s hard on his knees; he can already feel every little pebble and crack in the cement digging in. He’s not as young as he once was and it’s going to hurt like hell later, but right now he doesn’t fucking care.

The only thing that matters is the way Joseph is looking at him. For the first time all night that smug mask is cracking and there’s something helpless and nervous in Joseph’s eyes. Something real.

He leans in and mouths the fabric of Joseph’s khakis, his tongue probing the outline of Joseph’s cock. Even muffled by the cloth he can feel it twitch in interest.

Above him Joseph lets out a shaky sigh. “Fuck, I shouldn’t be doing this,” he mutters.

Robert rolls his eyes; if he had a penny for every time Joseph offered up a half-hearted guilt-trip like that he could buy a new Harley. He undoes the fly of Joseph’s pants with rough motions and yanks his pants and boxers down so that his cock springs free. It’s a fucking fantastic cock, as cocks go: long, thick, and utterly wasted on Joseph.

He closes his eyes and plants an open-mouthed kiss on the head, saving Joseph’s little cut of hiss in the back of his mind for later.

 And then he’s opening wide and filling his mouth, taking Joseph as deep as he can go.

There was a time when he would have done all this with artistry, maybe something like reverence- fingertips skating over Joseph’s thighs, teasing licks, long looks through lashes- but that was a long time ago.

Instead, he starts to swallow around Joseph’s cock like it’s a challenge.

Joseph lets out a shaky breath and tangles his fingers in Robert’s hair. “You’re beautiful like this,” he whispers in that voice of his, the one that makes people believe in god.

Robert wishes he would shut up; he doesn’t want to hear a damn thing out of Joseph’s mouth that’s not a moan or a nice bit of blasphemy that’ll make Joseph feel guilty later.

He redoubles his efforts, ignoring the pain in his jaw and the drag in his throat.

 “Robert,” Joseph groans, his head falling back. He starts jerking his hips, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

There’s a savage pleasure in taking someone you hate apart. Robert gives it his all: he bobs his head, he hollows his cheeks, he takes and takes and takes it until there are tears in his eyes and his lips are slick with spit. His knees ache, his jaw aches, and none of it fucking matters because he’s harder than he’s been in weeks.

All he wants is a hand on his cock. Hell, even Joseph’s hand would be something, and that’s accounting for the fact that as handjobs go, Joseph’s are awful. Robert’s private theory is that Joseph is too scared of dicks to touch his own, and that’s why he has no idea what to do with someone else’s. Every handjob Joseph’s ever given him has been tepid, timid, and bitter with resentment- and yet they still get Robert off like nothing in this world for some stupid, stupid reason.

He’s not going to ask Joseph; he’ll be damned if he asks Joseph for anything. Better to just die.

He contents himself by watching Joseph fall apart, saving each and every moment like a snapshot. Joseph’s mouth is hanging open as he pants shallowly, his eyes scrunched shut and his cheeks flushed with color. Every so often he lets out a tortured moan or a silent cry. He’s lovely in this helplessness: the way he forgets himself and lets his body guide him, the way all of the bitterness and guilt falls away. If only it could last.

He comes with a silent cry, his eyes clenched shut as his head flies back and his back bends like a bowstring.

As soon as the aftershocks pass it’s like a switch has been flipped.

Robert can almost see it: the moment Joseph comes back to himself. All his muscles tense, and his eyes slide away so that he’s looking anywhere but at Robert. He tucks himself back in and zips himself up with curt motions, and then he’s edging away, slipping through the gate and into the party without looking back.

Robert is left in the quiet of the alley, dusk coming on in the wake of the sunset. He can still hear chatter and laughter of the partygoers filtering into the alley, but they sound odd and off-key in his ears, like he’s hearing them underwater. Everything aches: his knees twinge, his thighs burn, he’s achingly hard in his jeans. And in the space between his ribs, a brighter, crueler pain.

Because even though Joseph does this every time, in every aftermath, it always hits him like it did that first night, on the deck of his stupid boat, when Robert had kissed him underneath the stars and he’d assumed it meant something.

He stands slowly, trudging back towards the party like an old man.

He knows better now.


End file.
